


They Were Not

by Gryff



Category: Dracula - Bram Stoker
Genre: Alternate Character Interpretation, Alternate History, Alternate Original Characters?, Brides of Dracula - Freeform, Count Dracula - Freeform, Dracula Influence/References, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, but my interpretation?, they're Bram Stoker's characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-07 14:35:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11061015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gryff/pseuds/Gryff
Summary: Dracula briefly remembers his wives - how they really were, not how Stoker wrote them.





	They Were Not

**Author's Note:**

> These characters originally belong to Bram Stoker, but as his works have gone into the public domain, they're free game to new interpretations.
> 
> There are demons, witches, and werewolves in this 'universe' of mine, alongside vampires and famous historical figures. In this universe the translation of Dracula - son of the dragon - is taken quite literally: he has dragonblood and can turn into a dragon.
> 
> I suppose this will make more sense with more posted works. But if you have any questions, comments, or suggestions (or think my work is shit), post them down below!

Contrary to popular belief, I did love my wives.

It was not the twisted macabre fondness that had been described in Stoker's book of forgeries and half-truths, no. I did not force them to stay in the castle, trapping them with sweet words and cutting fangs. None of them were of my bloodline either. I fell in love with them over the course of my life, and eventually I asked them to marry me and be with me forever. They had all agreed, even later, knowing that there would be others sharing that same bond with me. We were all bound to each other, not by a warped camaraderie or forced bondage or hypnosis or blood bonds, but _love love love_.

They were not bloody seductresses - no. Ilona was. She would be more offended had she seen how they described Jordis and Syeira - just like her, wanton, lustful, bloodthirsty whores. She would have swelled with pride had she been able to read the words Stoker chose. I know that for certain.

You modern day people might have called her a nymphomaniac, or just plain slut, but she had demonblood in her - her father or grandfather or someone was an incubus, her mother a Hungarian noblewoman of vampiric decsent. Sex and touch was a need for her as strong, if not stronger, than her need for blood. Ilona was always a constant presence at my side, her skin pressed against me in one way or another, even in the scorching heat of summer when the others fled from my burning skin, she would intertwin her fingers with mine, sleeping in the crook of my arm. When I was gone, she bedded with Syeira, and very rarely Jordis (the two fought often, more bickering sisters than lovers).

She had the powers of hypnosis and coercion, but often she challenged herself when it came to seduction, poking and prodding, teasing men and women alike (though she favored men more). She would smile at him knowingly as she pulled people aside, her long black locks twirling behind her as she glided through the room, deadly beauty and grace mingled.

Contrasting with her was my first wife, my first love, Jordis. Her name meant 'sword goddess' in the old Nordic tongue, and I never knew a more fitting name for her. She was a war goddess, fueled purely by battle and conflict. Where Ilona would flock to my bed daily, Jordis would become flushed and aroused only after battle or sparring or hunting, chasing me down and pouncing upon me and not letting me go until she was spent and tossing me aside to sleep.

She was the blonde in Stoker's tale who was written to defy him - one of few truths I've noted. But not the svelte beauty Stoker had described in his false journal entries - none of them were; Ilona was all curves, her body straining against her clothes, Syeira was waifish and small, her shirts billowing past her knees - her body was musculuar and hard, her features sharp and lined, jaw clenched tightly even when relaxed. When we travelled she either dressed as a man or masqueraded as our pet wolfdog. She was of that breed of vampire that had wolf blood in them - Lupine - practically lycans in mannerisms and behavior, to the point that she had been mistakened by a Saxony lycan pack to be one of their own, albeit with a smaller wolf form. She had led the vanguard of the pack who had attacked me once, while I was travelling up north. We fought for hours before I finally pinned her down - she was still biting then - and captured her. It was in bondage that I saw the rest of her personality bloom forward, or as much as one would reveal while wrapped in chains, or trapped in enchanted walls.

It was Jordis who attacked Jonathan, not Ilona, nor Syeira. The years spent locked in a tower away from the world had not been kind to her mind. She did not have the teasing grace that Stoker had bestowed upon her; Jonathan nearly died at Jordis' claws. It was Jordis who begrudgingly drove and warned away the pack - her pack - from Jonathan, but as time went on and I favored Jonathan more and more, she snapped.

Syeira was the quiet one. Gypsy-born but frightenly intelligent, she had been turned young, at 16 or 17 - abandoned soon after - but even when she was human she looked years younger than her true age. In vampirism, she looked an eternal child, but her burning eyes and the crinkle of magic around her told otherwise. She blended magic and technology seamlessly - Her legs were amputated once in a battle. A cannonball had blown through them from the knees down. I cauterized them, and she healed, and she replaced them with legs of metal and wood and ivory and leather and spells that connected her lifesblood to the foreign objects and allowed her to walk.

Syeira demanded very little. Where Ilona always wanted my gentle touch and kisses and presence and Jordis my spear (not that one, but sometimes that one) and fists and anger, Syeira bothered with nothing. She only asked for materials she could not find or salvage, and kept to herself. Sometimes she would climb into my lap when I was reading and sit there, tinkering away at some new project. Occasionally she would fashion little gifts for us - new weapons and armor for Jordis, mechanical flowers and enchanted pendants for Ilona, little protoypes for me to test the strength and durability of. Very rarely did she kiss me or hold me, but the small hidden smiles she reserved for me and me alone were enough for the both of us.

They were nothing like how others have written them. They were not tortured, abused women locked in my tower for my pleasure and mine alone. I made them do nothing. Everything that occurred was of their free will and desires. 

They were a far cry from what was written in Bram Stoker's book - so _so_ far from it. But neither was I, neither was Jon, neither was Mina or Lucy or Van Helsing or Abraham or Dr. Seward or Quincey or Renfield.

But I suppose I should write about that another time.


End file.
